


love actually is all around

by la_victorienne



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-20
Updated: 2011-12-20
Packaged: 2018-10-15 10:38:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,246
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10554930
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/la_victorienne/pseuds/la_victorienne
Summary: Eames is the Prime Minister of the United Kingdom. Arthur is his administrative assistant. It's almost Christmas.





	

**Author's Note:**

> because [](http://reinventweather.livejournal.com/profile)[reinventweather](http://reinventweather.livejournal.com/) said "WRITE A _LOVE ACTUALLY_ AU ARTHUR AND EAMES AS NATALIE AND DAVID" and I said OKAY.

The first time Prime Minister Jackson Eames meets his secretary, he swears profusely in front of several official-looking journalists, who promptly put the story all over the national media. It’s good for his image, he guesses, it makes him seem like the kinder, gentler, more human PM, but it’s also the first impression Arthur ever gets of him, and Eames would make a strong case that it’s worse to make your secretary despise you on the first day than it is to seem like a verbally loose cannon to your constituency. The constituency doesn’t bring you tea and biscuits at three-thirty in the afternoon, every afternoon, and pinch his lips together when you compliment his suit. The constituency does not write down your appointments, and colour-code them in order of importance, all without cracking a smile. The _constituency_ does not make you uncomfortable in your trousers every time it looks up from its perfectly organized desk to survey your sprawling paper trail, mouth turned down and eyes dark, as if either planning to bend you over it, or possibly just tidy up your notes. None of that is the constituency. All of that is Arthur.

Arthur, who is currently looking _extremely_ chummy with the President of the motherfucking United States of America, who has blond hair and blue eyes and a scraggly sort of beard. Doris, who serves Eames dinner, says the beard makes him seem “dreamy.” Doris is also eighty years old if she’s a day, and it _still_ drives Eames up the wall. The POTUS is not dreamy. Eames is dreamy. He’s the youngest PM in years, he likes football and _Game of Thrones_ and wanking off after an especially difficult day. What he doesn’t like are pushy politicians with their hands on Arthur’s arse.

He doesn’t like that at all.

He clears his throat. “Sorry, Mr Cobb—didn’t mean to keep you waiting.” Arthur springs out of the chair, shooting Eames a look that says something more like “thank you” than “why did you interrupt us.” Well. That’s interesting. “I take it Arthur has seen to your—needs?”

It sounds awful as soon as he says it. He meets Arthur’s eyes, shakes his head minutely. Arthur just nods. Cobb looks oblivious.

“Why yes, Jack, of course he has. Haven’t you, Arthur?” Arthur’s jaw clenches at Cobb’s leer. Eames feels strangely validated in his irrational hatred of President Cobb.

“I’m glad to hear it. If you’re satisfied, then—shall we start?” He nods at Arthur, who scoots out the door, his shoulder brushing Eames’ on the way out. Eames smiles a slow, dangerous smile at Cobb.

Turns out, his hatred of Cobb isn’t entirely irrational. The President has an intricate and convoluted plan for the upcoming press conference, the main points of which seem to be a) undermine the British government, and b) make Eames his bitch. Eames nods and smiles while Cobb talks about projected estimates and effective goals and how much he likes Eames’ tie.

Eames refrains from mentioning that their countries have the same national colours, for obvious reasons, and concentrates on not actually punching Cobb in the jaw.

He will punch him in the jaw with his _words_ instead.

At the press conference Arthur stands in the back of the room, making it much easier than Eames expected it to be to trounce the President’s ridiculous, bullying ideas, and walk out of the room, triumphant. He nods at Arthur as he goes, more confident around him than he’s been since they met. “My office, twenty minutes,” he says, under his breath.

“Yes, sir,” Arthur says quietly. Eames has no doubt he’ll be there, and smiles as he goes to face the press mob inevitably waiting.

 

 

 

 

 

Arthur, in his office after the shit-show, is impeccably pressed and presentable, standing stock still in front of Eames’ desk. Which is, quite frankly, ridiculous, given what Eames has done for love of him, if it can be called love. Not that it can be called love, not at the moment, but maybe, someday—

Eames pulls himself together and raps on the door. Arthur turns, and his shoulders soften a fraction. “It’s you,” he says.

“Yeah, it’s—just me,” Eames replies, and he feels a little silly but Arthur isn’t looking at him like he’s an idiot, so that’s a start. “You can sit down, if you want, I don’t want you to feel—“

Arthur sits. Eames smiles nervously, and sits next to him, instead of across the desk. The desk, to be quite frank, makes him uneasy—he’s not really a fan of the whole “prime minister makes you the automatic boss” thing; just yesterday Doris caught him dancing in a shirt and his underpants in the middle of his living room. He feels like they’re on a more even keel, now, actually. He wants that, for him and Arthur.

He wants a lot of things, for him and Arthur, but feeling like equals would be a start. He clears his throat. “Mr Arthur, I want you to know—if the president behaved untowardly, I apologize on his behalf, and on mine. I had no intention of putting you in a compromising position. I hope my apology is enough, but if you would prefer I solicit a personal letter from the president, I can—“

The look on Arthur’s face is priceless. “Are you—seriously? You—you walk in on the president of the country I grew up in manhandling me, and you apologize?”

“Well, yes,” Eames says, palms up, hands out. “What else did you expect?”

Now Arthur is looking at him like he’s a particularly disappointing idiot. “I expected you to fire me, Mr Eames. I thought—you’ve been looking for ways to get rid of me for months, now.”

 _What_. “What?” Eames is—he’s not sure precisely what he is, at the moment, except for out of his depth. “Why would you think that? I would never—I don’t want to get rid of you, Arthur, I have—I think you’re—I _like_ you. I simply assumed you didn’t like me, after I made an ass of myself that first day.”

Arthur still seems wary, his eyebrows furrowed. Eames wants to kiss the spot where they meet. “I assumed you were swearing because I’d done something wrong. It was only my first day on the job.”

Eames chuckles, and stands up, going around the desk to pull the Scotch from the bar, and two glasses. “Arthur, my darling—it was _my first day, too_. I was swearing because you were beautiful, and you made me feel like I was fifteen again, blindly in love with the boy at the end of the hall and with absolutely no idea what to do about it.” He hands over a glass of Scotch, which Arthur accepts, but not without lifting one eyebrow at him skeptically. “Not that I’m saying I’m in love with you, or that I’m saying I couldn’t ever be. Just that I—I don’t have any intention of firing you. If that makes any logical sense.”

Arthur takes a sip of his Scotch and stands, setting the glass back on the desk. “No wonder you have a speechwriter,” he says quietly, and straightens his tie. And then, louder, “Look, Mr Prime Minister—“

“Eames,” Eames interrupts.

“Mr Eames, then. I still think—I still think I should resign, respectfully. I—I compromised the security of this office and have absolutely no business continuing to work for you, in the future. I have enjoyed my time here a great deal, and I understand if you decline to be a character reference, considering the events of the evening.”

The events of the evening, indeed. This is the weirdest fucking night he’s ever seen since he sat down behind the desk, regardless of the fact that he isn’t in front of the desk at all. He downs the rest of his drink, in total defiance of the look on Arthur’s face, the look that says you don’t drink Laphroaig that quickly. He sets the tumbler on the desk, gives Arthur a hard look, and motions him to sit down.

Arthur sits.

“Tell me, Mr Arthur, since you insist on resigning due to compromising my security—did you tell the President any state secrets?” Arthur shakes his head, his mouth thinning. “And did you have any state secrets folded up and hidden in your, ah, trouser pockets, where the President was pawing at you?” Another shake of his head. Eames sits back in his chair, crosses his legs. “Then I don’t understand why you feel you need to leave the job. It sounds like you think you need to leave me.”

Arthur doesn’t say anything, just looks down at his feet. Eames isn’t sure what this sinking feeling in his stomach is, but he hates it more than anything he’s ever hated in the entire world—this heart-wrenching, sick-to-his-stomach sensation that maybe he’s missed his chance at something great, and it’s going to change everything. “Maybe that’s for the best, sir,” Arthur says quietly, and bows, slightly, as he leaves.

Eames takes the Scotch and moves up to his quarters, giving Doris the night off as soon as he gets in. Tomorrow he’ll have Arthur transferred to a better position, get a new secretary, and start running the country again, just in time for December. Tonight, though, he’s going to get _so drunk_.

 

 

 

 

 

For the next few weeks, Britain and Eames both prepare for Christmas, as a flurry of snow settles over London. That, of course, leads to a transit clusterfuck, _every time_ , so Eames has his hands full all the way up to Christmas Eve.

And the thing is, it’s all so much worse without Arthur. Arthur kept him together; Arthur kept him sane. Arthur had everything in Eames’ office running smoothly, like clockwork, and now he just feels lost, like the rest of the bloody blizzarded country. The new girl is sweet, certainly she is, but she doesn’t remember that Eames likes Jaffa Cakes and not Jammy Dodgers, that he prefers chocolate digestives to plain, that he needs his tea too hot or it’ll be cold by the time he remembers to drink it. She doesn’t put colours on his agenda or tidy up his mess when she comes in, and it took her days to work out Arthur’s filing system. She only just brought him the Christmas cards yesterday, and although his have been sent off and all that jazz, he hasn’t had a chance to flip through the ones he received. Politicians, diplomats—he flicks through them at his desk on Christmas Eve, at the end of the day, finally. They’re all the same.

Except for one.

One Christmas card, neat as a pin, handwriting familiar. Plain and simple, and no return address. Eames’ heart is in his mouth as he opens the envelope, everything clear and focused, his whole world narrowing to this moment, this card, this man.

_Dear Mr Eames—dear Eames._  
I appreciate the transfer you recommended. The new position is challenging and fascinating, and I enjoy it very much. I do, however, find my day lacking, without exchanging words with you. So I am sending this note, as a token of my appreciation for your kindness, and (if you can’t say it at Christmas, when can you?) an admission of something you may already know—I am very sorry about the incident with the President, as it happens, because I am already yours.  
Merry Christmas, with my—with love.  
Your Arthur. 

Eames reads the note twice, and calls for the car. Which is how he ends up wandering around Gloucester Road, knocking on every door, trying to see if Arthur is there, on Christmas Eve. It’s nice, actually; every resident he’s spoken with so far seems pleased to see him—but none of them are Arthur, and he can’t miss this opportunity again.

It’s the last house on the street. His last chance. He knocks—there are voices, inside, someone coming to the door—and oh, god, Arthur is shouting to someone inside, before swinging the door open to see Eames. Standing there. With absolutely nothing but himself to offer.

As Eames thinks about it, it’s probably pretty romantic.

“What,” Arthur says.

“I got your card,” Eames answers. “Me too.”

It’s all he can manage to get out before somebody else shows up at the door, a girl, with mousy brown hair and a curious smile. “Who is it, Arthur?” She sees Eames, and shakes her head. “Never mind—what—what are you doing here?”

Caught in a whirlwind of questions and family introductions, Eames is eventually buffeted around, and somehow suggests that half the lot take his car to a school pageant, for which a child is running around with an octopus head made out of paper maché. It puts a new meaning to the term “civil service,” he supposes, when all he’d like to do is wrap arms around Arthur and see if that mouth is as sweet as it is sharp-tongued.

Mercifully, Arthur grabs his wrist, when they get to the school, and pulls him into a darkened corridor.

“You came to my house,” he hisses, which is, hey, not exactly how Eames expected this to go, but he can run with it.

“I got your _card_ , Arthur. I had to come.”

“I sent that a week ago, you’re telling me you only just got it today? You couldn’t have phoned? Or something?”

“Are you ashamed of me?” Eames asks, genuinely curious in the answer.

Arthur colours immediately, a truly rewarding shade of pink. “Of course not, don’t be stupid, I just don’t know what to do with you.”

Eames smiles, and steps closer, pressing him back against a wall, sliding his hands around Arthur’s waist. “I think I have an idea, for that,” he murmurs, and then—thank fuck and all that is holy, Arthur’s mouth is on his, Arthur’s arms are around his neck.

“Fuck it,” Arthur says, into the kiss. “Let’s get out of here.”

It’s the best plan Eames has heard in a long time.

 

 

 

 

 

Christmas Eve at Downing Street is beautiful, the lights lit and decorations everywhere, but nothing compares to the way Arthur looks, stretched out in Eames’ bed. Out of his suit he’s long, and lean, and smooth, and Eames presses kisses to every part of him he can reach, sliding his tongue across the flat of a nipple, sucking a bruise into the curve of his hip. He finds every spot, every possible place that makes Arthur sigh, or hum, or suck in a breath, trying not to laugh. He maps Arthur’s ankles, behind Arthur’s knees, tongues the spot on the underside of his cock that makes him thrash and squirm. He does everything he could possibly think of to Arthur, because Arthur is _his_ , and it sets a fire hot in his belly that warms him from the inside out. And when he’s done, when he’s seen every scar and birthmark, when he’s tasted the crease of Arthur’s thigh and the underside of his ear, Arthur rolls him over and starts in on him, as meticulous and organized as Eames is sloppy and chaotic.

He talks while he touches, murmurs of breath that tickle Eames’ skin. “Wanted you the first time I saw you, thought I was crazy to be so into the PM. Knew it, though, really knew it, when you wrote me a thank you note on a post it before leaving, knew I’d go in and pick up after you. Watched you walk away, your tight fucking ass—“ Eames gets a spank, and his cock twitches. “Watched you walk away and knew how totally fucked I was, all for you, just for you.”

Eames throws him the lube from the drawer, incoherent. Arthur looks at it, and back down at Eames, who has hands fisted in the sheets. “What do you want me to do with this?” he asks, as if it’s a difficult question.

Eames narrows his eyes, and tugs at Arthur’s wrist until he can get close enough for a long, hard kiss, all wet lips and sloppy tongue. “I don’t care what you do with it, if it gets you inside of me sooner than later,” he hisses, and the look in Arthur’s eyes is sharp, and startled, and _incredibly hot_. He fumbles the cap when he opens it, but he works a finger inside of Eames nice and slow, licking into Eames’ mouth like it’s the only place in the world he wants to be. He teases Eames with one finger, then two, scissoring them out and curving in to make Eames buck and thrash in the sheets—and Eames obliges, so tired of having to be the backbone of the motherfucking country that it’s a relief to be boneless in his sheets, with Arthur working a third finger inside.

“Fuck, I dreamed about this,” Arthur says, a steady stream of compliments and profanities coming from his mouth when it’s not attached to a spot on Eames’ neck he seems to _particularly_ like. “I dreamed about this, I never thought you’d want it, don’t know why, just seemed like—but oh, fuck,” he swears, and Eames swears too, the tear of a condom wrapper and Arthur’s cock sliding in, fitting snug and perfect, until Eames’ heels are pressed to the bottom of Arthur’s spine and Arthur has to stop, a minute, “so I can—live here.” Eames kisses him instead of talking, a sweet, gentle kiss, and Arthur moves.

This, this is why—this is what Eames was missing, from the beginning. This place, this perfect place, with Arthur inside him, around him, everywhere—this is the secret. This is what he needed, and he didn’t even know it until Arthur was gone.

And Arthur’s head is bowed and Eames lips up at his mouth, his chin, kissing and breathing him in, until Arthur wraps a hand around Eames’ cock and strokes, slow and even. “Don’t close your eyes,” he says, holding Eames’ gaze. “I want—I want to see your face when you come.”

Eames just tightens around Arthur inside of him and lifts his chin, sharp and sure. And Arthur’s hand is moving faster and his hips are stuttering and Eames can just hold on, lock his hands around Arthur’s neck and want, and want, and want, until the sun explodes and the waves crest and Arthur crushes their mouths together as they come, desperate, biting the kisses and breathing harshly. Eames doesn’t know which way is up, or down, he can barely breathe, all he knows is Arthur and Arthur’s body, Arthur and Arthur’s hands.

When they come down Arthur strokes through the come on Eames’ belly, his head cradled against Eames’ chest. “I really thought you didn’t like me,” he says, voice low. “I thought I was just hoping for something that would never—just wishful thinking. But then you, at my door, and taking Ariadne to the kids’ pageant—god, Eames. I don’t know what to say.”

Eames just smiles, and presses a kiss to the top of Arthur’s head. “Say merry Christmas, darling, and a happy New Year. And call me Jack, when it’s just us. I like the way it sounds in your mouth.”

Arthur shifts, presses a kiss to the corner of his mouth. “Merry Christmas, Jack, and a happy New Year.”


End file.
